


AppleCross

by largerthanlifeus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Language, Age Difference, American Magical Schools, Epilogue Compliant(ish), Hogwarts, M/M, Original Character(s), Post-Deathly Hallows, Set in both America and England, Simon Cross hates floo travell, and floo travel hates Simon Cross
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/largerthanlifeus/pseuds/largerthanlifeus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon Cross has studied for years to gain his Mastery in Magical Defense at Applecross College. So when his proposal for updating the failing spell wards at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is accepted, he is thrilled. With this one job he will prove his controversial techniques are better than those that have been around for centuries, as well as completing the last step in his Defense Master Program at Applecross. Everything is working out just like he planned it. </p>
<p>And then he meets James Sirius Potter and all his plans start to fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to England, Simon Cross

**Author's Note:**

> So this idea has been wandering around my head for years. I have read several takes on how magic is handled in America (as opposed to how it works in England and Europe) and there hasn't really been anything that has ever satisfied me. There, to me at least, is a vast difference in culture and magical mythology here in the United States than in England, and I found the mirroring of English based customs and schooling to be a bit off. So I went and came up with something that I liked. And it may not be perfect, but to me at least it makes sense. Not that you will see a lot of my American Magical System in part one of this story, since part one takes place almost exclusively in the UK. Once Simon heads home in part two, you will get to see more. 
> 
> But for now, a quick cheat sheet to get to up to date with this story:
> 
> 1) This is Epilogue Complaint(ish). Meaning that for the most-part a lot of the things that occur in the epilogue occur in this story, just maybe not in the exact same way (i.e. I renamed James' brother because I find the idea of naming a kid after Dumbledore to be fairly horrific). A lot of the relationships are the same, but not all of them. Also, I have tweaked the dates of births and such to fit my world.  
> 2) In the beginning of this story James is 16 (but he soon turns 17) and Simon is 30. Because of legal reasons, and probably just my own morals, no sexual contact will happen (if at all, I'm not sure yet) until James is 18 years of age. (This is going to be one hell of a long story, you might has well know that up front)  
> 3) Part 1 will be from Simon's point of view, Part 2 will be from James'. I'm not sure exactly how I'm going to handle the pov in Part 3, but we'll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.  
> 4) And lastly (for now at least) Simon was born in England, but at the age of eleven moved with his uncle to Applecross, where his uncle teaches. There are reasons for this, but you are going to have to wait and find them out the hard way. 
> 
> I think that is everything you need to know for now. Hopefully you will like the story.

CHAPTER ONE: Welcome to England, Simon Cross

Simon Cross ran his finger down the worn edge of the envelope in his pocket. He contemplated taking it out, to check it one last time, but after twenty-odd readings in the last twenty-four hours, he doubted that the information had changed much. Still, in a world of magic and wizards and magical contracts that were written by wizards (some of whom had a rather sketchy view of honoring said contracts) there was every chance that the words had changed since the last time he had saw them. It was probably best to…

“Next!” 

Simon hastily pulled his hand out of his pocket and walk up to the counter under the tacked up sign reading:

FLOO DEPARTURES (INTERNATIONAL (NORTHERN HEMISPHERE (THAT MEANS NOT AUSTRALIA (WE MEAN IT, IF YOU WANT TO GO TO AUSTRALIA GET IN THE OTHER BLOODY LINE (AUSTRIA IS FINE (WE CAN GET YOU TO AUSTRIA (JUST NOT AUSTRALIA (YES, AUSTRALIA IS THE ONE WITH THE KANGAROOS))))))). 

The sign was falling apart in places, and it had grown so long that the last half had to be stuck to the wall running alongside the counter. Someone had drawn a picture of a happy, hopping kangaroo holding an Austrian flag down at the end. That had kept him entertained for all of fifteen minutes while he had been waiting. 

But he had been waiting in line for the last two hours, he had no desire to be waiting any longer. He muttered a tired hello at the witch, hoping to move this along as quickly as possible. The witch at the counter didn’t even bother to look up, from the list she was holding, just waved her wand at sheet of paper suspended above the counter, facing out towards Simon. 

“State your name and destination, then touch your wand to the parchment,” she said by rote, still not looking up or seeming to care what Simon was doing as long as he was following her directions.

Simon withdrew his wand and said, “Simon Cross; London, England.” He tapped his wand at the bottom of the paper.

He watched as ink bled onto the paper filling in the blank space with information.

**NAME:** SIMON ARTHUR CROSS  
**BORN:** NOVEMBER 2, 1989  
**DIED:** NOT YET  
**CITIZENSHIP:** DUAL-- **BRITISH** (BY BIRTH THROUGH MOTHER--DECEASED (FATHER UNKNOWN--PROBABLY A NO-GOOD POTIONS ADDICT)) AND **AMERICAN** (OBTAINED 1996 THROUGH GUARDIANSHIP OF UNCLE--WHO REALLY OUGHT TO HAVE BEEN SAINTED FOR TAKING IN SUCH A TROUBLESOME CHILD (REALLY WOULD IT HAVE KILLED YOU TO PICK UP YOUR SOCKS ONCE AND A WHILE? HE IS NOT YOUR HOUSE ELF, YOU KNOW))  
**LEAVING:** SEATTLE INTERNATIONAL FLOO STATION; SEATTLE, UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
**ARRIVING:** LONDON INTERNATIONAL FLOO STATION; LONDON, ENGLAND  
**REASON FOR TRAVEL:** DESPERATELY TRYING TO ATTAIN DEFENSE MASTERY BY PROVING HIS IS NOT IN FACT A COMPLETE IDIOT. ALSO--BUSINESS.  
**RETURN DATE:** UNKNOWN

**APPROVAL: …**

The ink was starting to cause a bit of a mess down at the bottom, were his APPROVAL was still pending. The dots started to get bigger and ink dripped down from two of them. Simon looked over at the witch, who was staring unblinking at the scroll in her hand. When Simon cleared his throat, trying to get her attention, the witch snorted and jerked her head up, shaking it like she was trying to clear her head. He cleared his throat again.

“What?” she snapped.

“The, um…” Simon pointed to the bottom of the paper. She glared at him. He tried smiling apologetically. “I’m on a bit of a tight schedule.”

She didn’t stop glaring, though the tips of her ears flushed pink at being caught out. “It takes as much time as it takes. Can’t rush these type of things.” The witch sniffed pointedly. “Security, you know.”

Afternoon naps, more like.

“Sure, sure,” Simon said. “But perhaps you could check that the security is now secure and I could keep my appointment?” _And then you can go back to your nap_ , he didn’t say; he wasn’t stupid.

The witch pointedly spent a minute clearing her already clear desk before she waved her wand over the scroll in her hands. She hmmm’d thoughtfully for another couple of moments then reluctantly tapped the paper three times. 

The floating parchment in front of Simon flashed green once and the ink-stained area under APPROVAL filled, finally.

Simon glared at the witch when he read it.

**APPROVAL:** APPROVED FOR TRAVEL (BECAUSE NO ONE WANTS YOU HERE); TRAVEL TIME 2:45 (TRAVEL TIMES CANNOT BE CHANGED, MOVED, OR SHUFFLED. IF YOU MISS YOUR LEAVE TIME YOU WILL HAVE TO ATTAIN A NEW ONE (NEXT OPEN SLOT IS NEXT TUESDAY (YOU BETTER HURRY))

HAVE A GOOD DAY, PLEASE COME AGAIN 

The clock on the wall read 2:43.

Muttering a few well earned curses at the witch, Simon grabbed the paper and hurried to the departure room. Just as he passed under the sign marked DEPARTURES (NON-KANGAROO), he heard the witch’s snarky, “Next!”

He hadn’t been in England since he was eleven, but he suddenly felt a distinct longing for the far-off country. Or maybe just a desire to be as far as humanly possible from here. Either way, it was where he was going and now there was no going back.

As the green fire flashed around him, he found himself really smiling for the first time all day.

*****

His small room, above the bar of the Leaky Cauldron, was rather dreary. Even if he had replaced the dark wood boarding, the dilapidated wallpaper--with no fewer than two and a half dozen dark stains of dubious origin--and the drooping window coverings, Simon doubted that much of the dreary would have been improved. The room had spent too much time dreary, too many witches and wizard had walked in this room, commented on said dreariness and had gone on contributing to the sad state, for there to ever be any real improvement. For all he knew, the room had started off as dark and dreary as it was when Simon first walked into it, and would go one being so until Time herself got fed up with the state of matters and caused the whole building to collapse upon itself, thereby improving the general mood of Diagon Alley by a whole seventy-third of a fraction.

Compared to the light and airy rooms at Applecross College, back home, Simon was feeling decidedly unwelcome and alone in his new, temporary room. But, luckily enough, they were in fact _temporary_ , and he would only be there till the end of the week when he would be taking the floo to Hogsmeade. If his luck held out, he would then be moving into guest quarters in the school, and would never ever have to come back to these dreary rooms over this grimy pub again. 

If that wasn’t incentive enough to make a good showing at his interview on Saturday, he didn’t know what was. Well, other than the fact that returning to Applecross having lost the rights to the Hogwarts contract--after five years of jumping through hoops of all shapes and sizes--would mean that there was not a doxy’s chance in hell of him finally attaining his Mastery. So...two reasons not to completely fuck up on Saturday. 

But he wasn’t worried. No, not a bit. Because he knew he was the best for the job. Knew that his plans were better than all the other’s submitted. Knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the name Simon Cross was going to go down in history as the man who revolutionized the way defensive magic was used in the United Kingdom. 

First, though, he was going to have to go get him some decent robes. Even from casual observance he could see that his wizard robes were not the _thing_ here in England. They’d pass well among the wizards in the west-coast of America, but there was a certain reserve to the clothing here in England that he was not used to. Robes here were decidedly... _old school_. More restrictive, and certainly just _more_. Maybe it was the lack of sun. Applecross wasn’t in California, but neither was it Seattle. Simon had a feeling that he would be longing for blue-sky and days spent among his trees soon enough.

Applecross would never be the making of Simon Cross, though, for all that it did have a substantial part in molding him. There was nothing there for him to add. No improvements to show his talents to their full potential. He could learn there, teach there, but he would never shine there. Too many suns, he guessed. 

Hogwarts, though. There, there he could blaze. And prove once and for all that he had been the correct choice for this position. And not just because his English birth gave the wizards here an excuse to include his proposition for updating the defense and shielding of the school's wards. Simon might have been born English, but he was raised a Cross. He had every intention of showing the world what a Cross could do.

*****

Four hours later, robes full of shrunken packages from various shops along the Alley, Simon found himself in the corner of a sparsely populated café enjoying a well deserved cup of coffee and a plate of several types of cookie. While his stops at _Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop_ for some spare stationary, and _Flourish and Blotts_ for a book or two to pass the time between now and Saturday, had been easily accomplished, his trip into _Twilfitt and Tattings_ had been the stuff of nightmares. Well, Simon’s nightmares, anyways; he loathed shops--and shopkeepers--so snobbish that they saw even their very customers as below noticing. He would have never even gone there, but he had been assured that they had the very best, and the very best is what he needed. Too bad the service was so wanting.

First he had been sneered at by two rather pointed matrons--with necklines so severe it was lucky any blood was making it to their brains--before he had even stepped more than three feet into the shop. Then the man at the counter had taken one look at him and had gestured vaguely down the street, saying that _Madam Malkin’s_ would be a much better fit for his type of custom. And even after Simon had made clear that, _no, he would much rather shop here and wished to be shown their line of male business robes_ , the man spent the entire time _subtly_ suggesting that their work was far out of Simon’s pocketbook--and _class_ \--and would he please stop wasting everyone’s time. 

Simon, spiting his face something awful, took nearly three times as long to settle on a the cut, color, and lines of his new robes than what he would have preferred. In the end, Simon had spent more than he wished, the clerk had to endure his presence for longer than he could stand, and both had parted with barely mumbled cures to the other’s health.

He did now possess a new set of truly fine robes, though. He decided to call that a win.

Deciding that his boots would do alright with his new robes, Simon had cut his shopping short of visiting a cordwainer, and opted for refreshments instead. 

So here he was, with coffee, a snack, and absolutely nowhere to go for the next three days. If he wished, he could spend that time going over his proposal, but to be honest he just didn’t have the energy or the inclination. Instead he retrieved one of the books he had purchased--an updated and newly published book on the history of the school he would soon be visiting--and settled further into his comfy chair to read.

England was turning out to be rather enjoyable, he thought, hours later. At least when one was not forced to be in the company of the English.


	2. Hogsmeade by Way of Swansea

CHAPTER TWO: Hogsmeade by Way of Swansea

Floo travel, Simon thought for not the first time, had to have been invented by a sadistic madman. Or mad _woman_ \--he would hate to be biased. Either way, be it man, woman, or house elf, floo travel was the bane of Simon Cross’s life. Evidenced most recently by the fact that he had been through the floo no less than five times in the last hour, and not once had he stepped foot within fifty miles of Hogsmeade, Hogwarts, or a Holiday Inn. Well, he had no proof of the last one, but of the former two he was quite sure. 

Simon was somewhat mollified by the fact that he was not the only one suffering from his miss-traveled fate. He was currently standing on the edges of a group of increasingly irate witches and wizards; all of whom had as much desire to be in Wales as Simon had. Which was to say, _none_. 

The fireplace in the pub he was currently being held hostage flashed an alarming shade of puce before cascading through a whole rainbow of colors. 

Simon edged his way back from the flames. He had never seen a floo network do _that_ before, but he wasn’t ready to suffer damage to his new robes on the off chance that it was just a harmless color-show and not, in fact, the forewarning of a critical meltdown.

Resisting the urge to check his watch, yet again, Simon settled for glaring at the fireplace. With a bit of luck--and a dash of magic-- maybe he could will the damn thing back into working order. It was unlikely, but still he was increasingly aware that the start of his appointment was growing closer by the minute; and he was actually further away from his destination now than when he had started out from the Leaky Cauldron earlier that morning. 

Simon almost thought that perhaps a dash of accidental magic had done the impossible when the fire went flat, nearly dying for a second, then flashed back to life the proper floo-green. He was proven wrong, though, when a face appeared in the fire saying, “Sorry, folks. We ‘ad a bit of trouble this mornin’ with the system. Should be all clear now.”

There might have been something else about red-haired weasels, but Simon was sure that he had misheard the man as the connection died out and the fire resumed its normal orangey hue. 

There was a rush to the fire by the large group of witches and wizards--which Simon sidestepped not wanting to get trampled to death--and no new disgruntled travelers to the lovely Welsh pub, so Simon assumed that everything was fixed. Not too soon either. When Simon took his turn at the fireplace, shouting the words _the Three Broomsticks_ as he dashed some floo powder into the waiting flames, it wasn’t more than five minutes till his appointment with the select committee of school governors and the current Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

Now, all he had to do was hope that magic was done playing her games for the day and let Simon work his own art in peace. 

*****

Simon brushed the ash from his hair, thankful that the short cut made easy work of it. From even a cursory glance around to English wizards it was clear that short hair was _not_ the fashion, but Simon liked his as it was. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted a job that was won or lost solely on the length of his hair, anyways.

The pub was only partly full, though as it got closer to noon no doubt it would fill up. Simon had never been particularly fond of crowds, so he was grateful that he was not going to be dealing with an influx of school students. School had been out for several weeks and no doubt the people of Hogsmeade were enjoying the quiet. Though the businesses were probably of a different mind. 

But that was neither here nor there for Simon. 

He scanned the thin crown looking for someone he could pin a name to. Having never met anyone on the committee of governors it was not an easy task. Just when he was going to break and go ask the bartender if anyone from the school was on the premises, a short man, with thinning hair to match his thin body, walked over to Simon. With outstretched hand he introduced himself as Thaddeus Legge, one of the school governors.

Simon shook the hand, introducing himself--though he was clearly already known--and followed Thaddeus to the private room that had been set aside for their use.

“Heard there was a bit of bother with the floo this morning,” Thaddeus said as he led Simon down a short, skinny, hall. “Missed it myself. Had to be in the village for another meeting early this mornin’ so I didn’t get caught up. Glad you got through. Would’ve hated for you to miss the meeting.”

“Got to see a bit of your country, so it wasn’t all bad,” Simon prevaricated. “It’s lovely, after all. Now I can go back home and brag about all the places I got to see.”

Not that he would be spending much time going over the glories of a Manchester spelled-glass factory, but flattery never hurt anyone. 

Thaddeus smiled genially, then opened the door to his right at the end of the corridor. “Just in here. We’ve got tea if you want some?”

“That would be great. Thank you. Think I might have swallowed a bit of ash on the last leg of my journey.” He’d prefer coffee, but British formalities must be met and answered. And really, tea was hardly the worst thing he could be offered at present. 

Handing him a cup, Thaddeus led him to the table that took up the majority of the room. Around it sat four other wizards and three witches. 

Simon set his tea on the table but remained standing.

“Gentlemen, Ladies,” Thaddeus began. “This is Simon Cross, one of the finalist for the warding section of the Hogwarts Restructuring and Renewal Grant.”

There was a murmuring of polite welcomes and greetings coming from the others in the room. Thaddeus gestured for Simon to take the chair in front of him. Once they were both seated Simon turned his attention to the committee and those who would soon decide on his proposal’s fate. 

“Mr. Cross,” said the tall blond man near the right end of the table. “Your proposal, while very well put together, is vastly different from those of the other two finalists. You are also the only foreigner to have made it this far in the process.”

“I was raised for the most part in the States, yes,” Simon agreed quickly. He knew he was going to have to deal with this, so it was probably best that they get it out of the way from the get go. “But I lived and was indeed born in, England. Wiltshire, in fact.”

He would not go into his feelings or circumstances for those eleven years, but he _did_ live them in England. What the committee didn’t know could hurt him.

“Furthermore,” Simon continued. “My uncle felt it was his duty to teach me as much about my home country as possible. His employment at Applecross required that I reside in America, but he is very much an _English_ wizard at heart. He even attended the school here in his childhood. I have grown up with stories of Hogwarts. It was an honor to even make it this far in the selection process.”

“So you will not be overly disappointed if you are not our final selection?” asked a slightly dumpy witch in the middle. 

“Quite the contrary, Ms…?” he replied.

“ _Lady_ Gladiola Hetherington,” the witch informed him with a sniff.

Simon tipped his head in thanks. “As I was saying, Lady Hetherington. I would be of course upset to lose this chance. Not only for myself, and my associates, but for Hogwarts as well.”

“Oh?” said the wizard to the left of Hetherington.

“Yes.” Simon pushed his tea cup to the side and folded his hands in front of him. “While my competitors have good plans for the school, I believe mine far surpass them in use, technique, and overall protection to the school and the pupils.”

The first wizard interrupted him again. “How would you say your intended plans do so?”

“Mr.?” Simon asked, dearly wishing they had bothered to introduce themselves when they had started this meetings. He had a sneaking suspicion that they had purposely withheld their names to wrongfoot him from the very beginning. Well, there was nothing for it now; he would just have to keep on as he was.

“Malfoy,” the man said with a small smirk. “ _Lord_ Draco Malfoy, to be exact.” He paused, looking over Simon as if taking measure of the American wizard. “You may call me _Mr._ Malfoy.”

Simon nodded his head. “Of course, Mr. Malfoy.” He resisted the urge to ask if there was anyone on the committee who didn’t have a title to hang around their necks. “To put it simply, the other plans are great at defending the school from what has attacked it in the _past_. My plans will help protect it from whatever will try to harm the students in the _future_.”

A range of curious looks traveled between the various members of the selection committee. 

Thaddeus, from beside Simon, cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should explain that point further?”

Simon held back a sigh. It wasn’t like all this hadn’t been explained, in detail, in the packet of information that was included along with his plans and credentials. He had to wonder if anyone had bothered to read it. They better have; especially when he spent the better part of three months writing it. 

“No problem,” Simon said with a smile. He pulled out a small stack of papers from inside his robes. He enlarged, duplicated, and sent copies to be set in front of each witch or wizard. “Now I was sent, I assume, somewhat truncated versions of the other plans on offer? Good. So from what I can gather from both Mrs. Weasley’s plans, as well as those of Mr. Sillett, there are some very well defined measures in place to prevent apparition, port-keying, unauthorized floo-travel, as well as stopping several dark entities and powers from entering the grounds. Am I correct?”

“For the most part, yes,” said another witch several places of from Lady Hetherington.

“And while these measures are all well and good, they all seem to have one glaring flaw.”

“What would that be?” said Mr. Malfoy.

“They all, to the one, only target, sense, or acknowledge _English_ based magic. Or, more specifically that with an European and Latin based source of origin.”

They all looked rather shocked at his pronouncement. Lady Hetherington even had her mouth hanging open. Simon was shocked as well; he had no idea how they didn’t know this. What on earth did they teach at Hogwarts?

Thaddeus turned to Simon. “Are you saying that a magic-- _dark_ magic--with no Latin roots could fool the spells?”

“I’m saying that those spells won’t even recognize it as magic--dark, light or grey. At least not of a kind that it has any parameters to handle. With the right spells I could apparate right now into the Headmaster’s office--” the wizard next to Mr. Malfoy scowled at that, “--and set off enough destructive spells to reduce the castle to rubble if I wanted to.”

“The Founder’s Defense would stop--” the scowling wizard interjected.

“The defenses laid down by your four founders are mostly gone. And while they were wider ranging than most of the spells put on the castle in the intervening centuries, they have been widely distorted--or outright broken--by now. We may have not been given the full details in the scans we were supplied to create our proposals,” putting aside the fact that the wizards based in-country could just camp right outside the wards if they wanted to, “but unless a large chunk of spellwork was kept back I can tell you right now that they wouldn’t hold up to the concentrated effort of your seventh year students, let alone a group of fully trained and even half-way motivated, wizards.”

“That's--”

“Are you--”

“Preposterous!”

Simon lifted his cup to his mouth to give his hands something to do. It would not be decorous to rub the bridge of his nose in frustrations like they were a bunch of his freshmen students refusing to believe that magic could not in fact protect you from everything.

He raised his hand, requesting silence. “You would not be here right now if you did not already know this. The wards on the school are failing. They have been for years. Your last war did damage a lot deeper than stone and mortar. Restoration efforts no doubt have the majority of the school back to looking like it always has, but the magic that you took for granted can no longer function the way it was. There have been attempts to update the castle wards over the centuries, and all but a few patch-work attempts have been rejected. If they were not so close to failing completely now you would not be doing anything about them.”

There was a risk in insulting them, in throwing back into their faces the failings of people they held in honor. But if they could not see the truth then all of his work was doomed anyways. He did not come this far to fail.

Another round of traded looks volleyed across the group, though these at least looked promising. No doubt the other candidates had promised to restore Hogwarts to its former glory. Grand speeches bandying names of former headmasters and prominent teachers, letting the committee get so caught up the past that it repeated its mistakes yet again. Simon wanted more. Partly for selfish reasons, but mostly he just saw something broken that he wanted to make better. To trim off the waste and grow new defenses in its place. To protect the school from whatever would come at it next; no matter what it was or where it came from.

The witch at the left end of the table, who seemed to be the eldest of the lot by several decades, finally spoke up after several rallies of silent dialogue had passed from one end of the table to the other. “You would do away with all of it and start anew?”

“No,” Simon said. The tight knot that had started to form when it looked like they would reject him wholesale, started to loosen at her open expression. She, _they_ , were not sold yet; they would be. “No, what I have planned is a combination of new and old spells and techniques from several branches of magical theory. If you open your packet of information to page....”

And so Simon presented his proposal one last time. Answering questions and debating points like he had done in countless practice sessions. For all that they had only moved to act when the problem became almost too dire to fix, the committee seemed to know what they were talking about. They never gave him more than a few small smiles--and a whole bag of noncommittal answers--but when he was led out of the room by a still talking Thaddeus, Simon felt triumphant.

They had listened, and more importantly _heard_ , him. He had no doubts that they would see the obvious and choose the right proposal.

His.


	3. Names Are Dangerous Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is Pride this weekend where i live so I probably won't get much chance to write, so don't expect another update till about midweek next. I'm updating as I write so sometimes the gaps are going to be short, and sometime longer. If you leave comments I might be inspired to write quicker. (hint hint)
> 
> But here is the next chapter in my little story. And we finally get to meet James. Yea! (Enjoy)

CHAPTER THREE: Names Are Dangerous Things

Hogwarts was...impressive. It was a big and, well, castle-y. Simon, who would be the first to admit his bias towards his own school, was nonetheless impressed by its sheer impressiveness. NZC--the only Mexican based magical school since the attacks in the early 20’s--was probably the only place he’d ever been that rivaled Hogwarts for shock value. Though Nezahualcoyotl didn't have nearly the same aesthetic effect as a grand castle. _There_ he was mostly trying to not pass out every time he glanced at the wards. And since he was there specifically to _study the wards_ , he spent a good six months constantly at risk of plummeting off one of the cliffs into the ocean below. Jeremías, the headmaster, had taken particular joy in assigning him tasks on the crumbling south wall. The man was deranged. Probably why NZC was still standing and the other school was not. 

Simon rather missed the man.

The wards here were nowhere near as impressive. They felt brittle under his magical touch. Stretched too many time to their breaking point, the multiple layers of protection and repelling charms were much worse off than he had surmised. 

_Just how old were those scans?_

He hated to think that this much deterioration had occurred in just a year. Forget seventh-year Hogwarts’ students, he had a couple freshmen who would take these down in their sleep. 

There was no way that these wards were keeping anything out. He’d have to be extra careful when he walked the grounds. Creatures were drawn to powerful magic and without the wards the castle was about as low-key as a Vegas buffet. 

After his meeting last Saturday, he had reluctantly returned to London. As much as he had no desire to spend another night in that awful pub, he couldn't expect the committee to make a decision in only a few hours. Simon didn’t even know if the other candidates had been interviewed yet. So he had floo’d back--luckily without the side stops this time--and changed into his more comfortable robes. He’d spent the next few days playing tourist; both in the magical and the muggle world. If he didn’t get the contract who knew when he would next be in the country, and he didn’t want to miss the chance to explore. It wasn’t like his first eleven years on earth had involved many sight-seeing trips.

The beach had been fun, though it had started to rain halfway through the day, and he had found the most amusing magical stop (disguised as a business that only sold blue buttons) while avoiding the sudden downpour. Their chocolate bunnies that hatched from their eggs if hidden for three days were particularly amusing. He bought three cases. Malik could use them when teaching detection wards.

But finally on Thursday a brown owl had swooped down on his morning bowl of oatmeal and dropped a letter congratulating him on his appointment under the school board as Chief Wizard in Charge of Remodeling and Rejuvenating the Spell Wards at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

They really did love to capitalize things, the school board did.

He was so pleased with the news that he didn’t bother to scold the owl for dumping his breakfast over half the table.

By Friday morning he was packed, down several galleons, and on his way to Hogsmeade. Simon had been offered the chance to floo in directly to the school, but he had wanted to get his first impressions of the school from the outside. So he had owl’d back and received directions from the Three Broomsticks to Hogwarts’ outer gates. 

The gates themselves were in good shape, though Simon had a feeling that was because they had been replaced in the last couple years. With an approving look he noticed the small lines of runes carved into the iron rods. When he placed his hand lightly on the gate--making sure not to push even the slightest amount--he felt the crackle of wards over his fingertips. Whomever had built this gate knew what they were doing. And since the runes were grounded to the earth beneath--and not the overall spell wards of the castle--he would have no problem incorporating them into his own plans. Which was good since it would be a pity to have to replace such fine workmanship. He would have to ask for the name of the witch who made them.

However, where the gates were in good condition, the fence on either side was barely standing. Sections of it, further down the road, were even missing. Simon could feel the ward-magic trying to fill the gaps--and only barely succeeding.

He mentally reviewed his luggage, hoping he had remembered to pack a pair of his work books. He was going to spend all of tomorrow, and probably the day after, walking the perimeter of the castle’s wards and he doubted very much of it had a nice manicured road running alongside. Simon tried not to think too hard on what exactly was going to go into his trek through the forest that abutted the school grounds. The information they had sent him had been...vague. And a bit worrisome. Why the Headmaster and governors allowed something called The Forbidden Forest _inside_ the protection wards, he would never understand.

Then again, Jeremías regularly had his students wading in kappa infested waters. Everyone knew that Jeremías was crazy--if brilliant--and prone to having long drawn-out, and overly explosive, arguments with himself. A parent who sent their little witch or wizard-in-training to NZC knew what they were getting, and what they were in for. Surprisingly few students ever died there.

The sound of boots on gravel broke his reverie. On the other side of the gate, up the walk, came a young man wearing muggle clothes. The jeans and t-shirt looked worn in, and there were several holes in both. He was not running, but there was a certain _hurry_ to his steps.

“Sorry,” the young man yelled, raising his hand in greeting. “There was a small...er, revolt in the greenhouses. I’m to let you in.”

When he had got up to the gate, Simon could see the young man was about the age of Simon’s apprentices. Which would explain why he was still around the school during summer break. He was clearly much too young to be a teacher. Simon hadn’t spent much time looking into the educational opportunities open to graduating students after they leave the school in their seventh year, but he assume that there must be something in place.

Before the young man could open the gates Simon lifted his hand causing the kid to pause. “Wait. Would you be willing to help me out with something?”

The young man gave an uncertain smile. “Um, sure?”

“Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. Much,” he added with a wink.

“Um...I...ah,” the kid stammered.

“Joking.” Simon knelt down and looked for two stones about the same size. When he found a couple that would work as decent focuses he stood up. “Ok, I’m going to try something but it is best we don’t do it across the gate.” Because he had no intention of his first impression to be the idiot wizard that lost his limbs to his own stupidity.

Simon walked about twenty paces past the gate and gestured for the young man to follow, on the other side of the fence. Ending the spell that he had up that let him see the structure and flow of the wards, Simon waited for the kid to get in position. He took both stones in his hands and recited a short chant; feeling his magic settle inside the stone focuses, he smiled. Then he spat on both rocks. Magic, intention, and bond settled into the stones. Now all he had to do was hope the wards were set to allow natural objects through. Which they should be.

Taking one of the stones he pulled his arm back and pitched the rock over the metal fence, yelling, “catch!”

The kid didn’t flail or anything; just watched it sail over the fence and then stuck his hand up and caught it like it was nothing. He did seem a little grossed out when he remember it was covered in Simon’s spit, though.

“Good catch!”

“Keeper!”

Simon assumed he was talking about Quidditch and not just flattering himself. And it looked like he was not a half bad keeper by the looks of it. Though what the kid could do on the ground, and what he could do in the air could be two totally different things. 

“Now, you don’t have to do anything but _not drop the stone_.” He gripped his own in his right hand. “Oh, and summon a nurse if I burst into flames.” Simon paused. “ _After_ you put me out, if you don’t mind.”

Satisfied by the slightly horror-filled look he was getting, Simon smiled.

“Here goes nothing!”

Simon invoked the key for the spell and closed his eyes. Bright blue light flashed even through his closed eyelids and there was a slight tickling on his clavicle and his right toe. Since his ears were not filling with water, Simon didn’t worry too much. When the light vanished and his toe stopped twitching, Simon opened his eyes. 

The young man’s eyes were a wide screen of dark green fields in a white sky. From this side of the fence they seemed to take up the entirety of Simon’s vision. Granted, ‘this side of the fence’ was about two inches away from said eyes, but even several feet away Simon would find them quite startling. Maybe it was the way his eyelashes were so _black_ against his tanned skin, or the way the blush was crawling up the young man’s cheeks, but Simon found himself unable to look away or give them a few more inches between so he could regain his breath. 

“Hello. I’m Simon.”

Moss colored eyes flicked up to his. “Hey. Simon. I’m beautiful.” A horrified look passed over the young man’s face. “I mean handsome--No!--Merlin, fuck. I’m _not_ handsome.” He flushed cheeks stood out against the rapidly paling skin. “I’m, I mean, I _could_ be handsome. If you thought. Do you think I am, because one of my best friends is part veela and she is always telling me that just because someone has nice features it doesn’t make them pretty or handsome or whatever, it’s all about how they act and sometimes I don’t know what I am doing and I just make an absolute tit out of myself like--Merlin!--like right now and why can’t I shut up? Please make me stop talking; I’ll owe you like a million life debts if--”

“I once, on a bet, ran naked through the campus only to accidentally hit the Dean’s mother who was there to see her grandchildren. I knocked her down and we fell into a ditch that was filled the runoff from the last rainstorm, and she almost drowned underneath me while I flailed, _naked,_ on top of her..”

The kid stared at him, mouth hanging open.

"It wasn’t till I got pulled off her by campus security that it was pointed out that my _friends_ had magically tattooed my back to say ‘Lick Me, I Taste Like Apples.’”

“How are you still alive?” the young man said, awe in his voice.

“The Dean’s mother was really _fond_ of apples.”

There was a slight crinkling of the kid’s brow, then his eyes widened and he started to shake with laughter. It got so bad that he grabbed hold of Simon’s robes trying to keep himself upright. Simon felt duty bound to slide his hand under of the young man’s elbows to keep him from falling to the ground.

He honestly never had quite _this_ reaction to the tale, but he couldn't dredge up much regret or shame. The kid’s laughter was filling the open field around them and Simon heard a few of his own chuckles join the slowly hushing rings of pleasure. 

A small part of him did not want to let this moment pass. It had been a stressful few months, and even Dori and Gavin had been avoiding him and his foul mood. He had a hard time remembering the last time he simply laughed because someone else was so happy it became infectious. And no, it didn’t hurt that the young man was, indeed, very handsome, or that he radiated warmth in Simon’s arms that rivaled even a summer sun.

Laughter and warmth and fresh air and success filled him. It was the most relaxed he had been in a long time. Almost all thanks to the young man slowly pulling out his arms.

“Oh Merlin. _Thank you_.” It was said with such serenity that ‘your welcome’ seemed entirely inadequate. 

“For what?” He did not think that it was simply for keeping the young man out of the dirt. And going by the beat-in stains on the kid’s clothes, it looked like he was hardly a stranger to getting dirty. 

“I was making a complete arse out of myself.”

“And maybe I was was overwhelmed with the need to tell someone about my infamous apple fetish.”

The young man shook his head, but didn’t press any further.

Simon took a step back, straightening his clothes. He hoped he hadn’t misplaced anything during the short hop from one side of the fence to the other. He could never prove it, but Simon was positive that when he had first attempted that spell, years ago, he had lost a good hundred hairs from his head. Permanently. Malik said he was just imagining things, but Simon _knew_ his head had felt lighter on the other side of the trip.

Everything seemed to be where it had been, though he couldn’t resist the urge to rub over his hair in reassurance. He had no way of knowing what kind of surprises his father’s blood had in store for him, and it would be just his luck to help a genetic case of baldness on its way to completion by lousy spell casting.

“Well, not that we didn’t get off to a splendid start, but let us try this again, shall we?” Simon stuck out his hand. “Simon Cross. I’m going to be bringing your castle’s wards up to snuff.”

The young man straightened, rubbing his hands over his clothes to straighten them. It was rather pointless, but Simon appreciated the gesture for what it was. “I’m James, though my family usually calls me Jamie. I’ve sold myself as slave labor to the Herbology professor.”

“Pleased to meet you, James called Jamie.” Simon gestured up the path. He looked over at the young man as they made their way up it. “I hope you didn’t sell yourself too cheaply.”

“Nah, he’s a friend of the family so I only had to promise him my undying loyalty. And the right to never babysit my first born.” James scratched his neck and shrugged. “I was apparently a bit of handful as a child. I figure as long as I don’t blow up Uncle Nev’s greenhouses I should be good. I’m not the _twins_ so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

Simon raised his eyebrow. 

“They’re the most evil girls to ever walk the face of the earth. Don’t be fooled by their sweet smiles,” James warned, with all due seriousness. “I spent a month in fourth year with a spell on me that made me reveal all of my most embarrassing secrets to anyone who said my full name. I _still_ get twitchy whenever anyone calls me that.”

“And what,” Simon asked, “is your full name?”

James looked at him through slitted eyes. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

“Little ol’ me?” A low chuckle left Simon. “Oh, I’m the most trustworthy man you’ll ever meet.”

“Says the spider to the fly…” James mumbled. “Oh, alright. Just this once, you hear? And you can’t go around telling people.”

Simon mimed sealing his lips.

James leaned over, his lips brushing the side of Simon’s left ear. The young man’s voice was low, and his breath hot against Simon’s skin when he whispered, “ _James. Sirius. Potter._ ”

Simon wondered if there was indeed still magic in the name because he felt himself shiver as he heard it. 

The Potter part rung a few bells, but Simon wasn’t exactly sure why. He didn’t think he knew any Potters, and James was a common enough name that he knew several handfuls over the years. But Simon had a feeling that James Sirius Potter was a one of a kind. 

“That’s a secret. You have to keep it.” James said as he pulled away. Either a bit too slowly, or too quickly; Simon wasn’t sure. “You swore your oath.”

“I shall take it to my death.” There was a stir of magic in those words, and later Simon was going to have to sit himself down and have a good long worry about why he was not worried that his magic was acting up.

They turned back towards the castle.

The weather was incredibly nice that day. The sun was shining, but it wasn’t too warm, and the low breeze kept the sweat off of Simon’s brow. It was extremely pleasant to walk beside James and talk about nothing but what came to mind at the moment. James was in the middle of explaining the differences between African and Asian Blood Lilies when he stopped and turned to face Simon.

“Wait. I forgot. How in Merlin’s name did you beat the anti-apparition wards? Like a hundred years of students have tried to do that and no one has ever succeeded.”

Urging James forward, back into motion, Simon explained. “Strictly speaking, I didn’t.”

“Then how…?”

“I did not actually apparate. The anti-app wards are set to stop a specific spell that is invoked when you apparate from outside, into the castle’s wards. There is also a set of wards to prevent anyone inside from getting out, but those are slightly different since they have to have several emergency overrides. What I did in no way invoked the spell used for apparition so the wards didn’t know to keep me out. Granted, if the castle had a complete set of wards going at full strength I would have likely died a horrible--if mercifully short--death. Luckily that wasn’t the case.”

“So that joke about putting you out if you caught fire?”

“Still a joke. Most likely there wouldn’t be very much of me left to put out, even if for some reason I caught fire.”

James looked a bit pale. Not that Simon blamed him. After having taught freshmen classes for the last five years, he was getting used to the odd student becoming ill during what he lovingly referred to as “1001 Ways to Die a Most Painfully Awesome Death” lecture. That certain week was perhaps the only reason he had not begged or bribed his way out of the position years ago. It had become legend around Applecross and he would so hate to deprive any incoming students of being part of Applecross traditions.

And he didn’t realize until that moment what exactly his job here was going to cost him. Because, with a pang a real sadness, he remembered that his contract didn’t end till summer _next_ year. There would be no crying freshmen this fall for him to lovingly traumatize. There would be no poisoned apples left on his desk or long night conversations with his uncle over their favorite brandy. 

He really was alone for the first time in nearly twenty years. It was rather daunting.

James nudged his shoulder lightly. “Think you could teach me the spell? My dad’s an Auror and it would totally freak him out.”

And just like that he rememberd why he was here. Why he really wanted to be _here_. Simon laughed. “No problem. Just make sure you’re careful with the re-entry. Would hate to harm that unique head of hair you have going on there.”

James blushed.

Simon rubbed his hand together as they got closer to the castle proper. Work would begin tomorrow, but it didn’t mean that they couldn’t have a little fun till then. “So, tell me all your secrets, James Siri--”

James pushed him to the side and took off running for the front doors, cackling. Simon followed.


End file.
